


Set in Stone

by InvincibleRodent



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Past Gorim/Female Aeducan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4512858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvincibleRodent/pseuds/InvincibleRodent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair/Aeducan drabble collection.<br/>Some are my takes on canon events, re-imagined or told as-is, or moments of introspection from my Warden or Ali-bear. Some are just random moments that could have happened off-screen and didn’t deserve a full one-shot. Please enjoy. :)</p><p>I'm not very good at giving my works actual titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set in Stone

**Author's Note:**

> There is painfully little Alistair/Aeducan content floating around, and dwarves (especially dwarven ladies) are just under-appreciated as heck. Which is making me all kinds of frowny because dwarven culture is fascinating.  
> So have tiny, bite-sized snippets of dwarf lovin’.  
> (Just a heads up, I headcanon that Warden Aeducan should be a good five years older than Alistair, if not more.)

As a little girl, she had dreamt. Her eyes devoured the pages, one by one, cover to cover, and she had lain awake long, hollow nights, picturing the handsome knights and princes in shining armor; the brave heroes of human fairy tales, who rode into battle on their noble steed, and swept the fair maiden off her dainty little feet. She had dreamt of dragons, of beasts of legend, of honor and blood.

She had dreamt that one day, her beautiful prince would, too, come for her.

As a woman, she no longer dreams. She became her own knight, her own champion; she dons her own shining armor. Fairytales long forgotten, dreams no longer serve her- there is no room, no time, for in this world, only the brave can live on. It is the strong who stand against the darkness, the beasts, the ugliness. No matter how short, it is those who stand tall whose voices are heard, whose deeds are remembered.

The people bow when she marches by. Hard footfalls, the steps of a soldier, to draw attention; decorum glistens in artificial light, and her lips stretch into a confident smile.

Their commander, their princess, their future.

Children of the Stone do not dream.

\---

She falls to her knees, and the metal guard bites into her skin even through the padding. Armored hands search for her brother’s, frantic, and she grasps at his gloved fingers as if she was drowning-- Trian’s lungs gurgle with each labored breath, and pink bubbles trickle from the corner of his mouth, down his chin, staining his beard.

His last breath is her name, and then he is no more. Prince Trian has fallen.

She stares blankly into his empty, dull eyes; her grief deeper than tears. Voices cry out, she doesn’t recognize them- usurper, traitor, murderer, innocent. She doesn’t even protest when her hands are cuffed behind her back, when rough hands push and tug her up, push her away.

Only when the cell door slams shut does she scream; a broken cry swallowed up by the moss-covered bricks.

\---

Her eyes strain against the brightness of the midday sun, as she sees it for the first time. The sky is vast and open, endless; she feels like falling every time she looks up, so she stares down on purpose, bitter and defiant. _Sun-touched_ , they would call her.

This is all so different. _It’s much warmer in Orzammar_ , she shudders, and pulls the thick, borrowed goat hide cloak tighter around her body. It’s twice as big as it should be, and she has to stare at her feet to not trip on the edge brushing the ground... _like a king’s mantle,_ she thinks, and her mouth tastes sour. _How ironic._

There is too much air, and the foreign sword and dented armor feel much heavier than they should- the previous owner, _may they find peace in the Stone_ , had a waist much slimmer and bosom less ample than hers-, and the metal gnashes against chainmail and nugskin with an annoying, metallic sound.

“Not long now,” Duncan smiles, reassuring, and she fights back a frown. She may be stripped of her title and name, but she had still been Princess-Commander Aeducan once! The finest warrior of Orzammar, the daughter of king Endrin Aeducan! She doesn’t need anyone’s good graces to feel adequate! ... But, it is a welcome flash of warmth in a world where there is none, and she returns the smile a little more gratefully than she would like to admit.

\---

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

The first words out of his mouth addressed to her, and she needs just a moment to slip back into the present. She had been standing there, ignored and horrified, watching the young man’s face- the boyish smile, the glint of mischief dancing in amber eyes, the hints of a stubble on his chin, and _by the moss-addled ballsacks of my most gracious Ancestors, this is just a kid._

Couldn’t have seen a day more than twenty springs, the Warden’s armor makes him look more like a toy soldier, a carved figurine painted vibrant blue and glittering silver, than a man who has any lick of an idea on how to use a blight-cursed sword. And _he_ would be _her_ senior?

“You must be Alistair.” she hears her own voice.

\---

He’s the first to make her laugh in weeks. It’s no louder than a sniffle, a tiny snort of laughter hidden behind her glove, but it is a laugh, and she’s surprised she’s still capable of such an action.

“Just so you know, if the king ever asks me to put on a dress and dance the Remigold, I'm drawing the line.” he says, and he grins down at her, as if waiting for a smile, a nod of approval and deep within, she marvels at that carefree spirit.

He’s the first to make her laugh in weeks.

\---

Alistair is fast. Much faster than someone carrying so much weight should be.

He stabs his sword into the ogre with a ferocity she has not seen since her days studying with dwarven berserkers- the creature’s blood splatters on his chestplate and it howls in pain; its arms swat blindly at the makeshift team.

She whispers a quick prayer for the Ancestors’ strength as she barrels into it and swipes at the back of its knee, severing the sinews keeping it upright. The ogre manages to take half a stumbling step before it falls to the ground with a deafening crash, where Alistair’s sword slides into its eyesocket; a hot knife in butter.

The ogre lets out a bone-chillingly human scream of agony. It writhes and thrashes as the sword twists violently; its suffering ends with its skull crushed by the bash of her shield.

She pants from the exertion, but she stands straight. She yanks the helmet off and shakes the sweat-soaked tresses out of her eyes to look her comrades over for injuries. The guard is sporting a few minor grazes and gnashes, the circle mage doesn’t put weight on his left leg, but at least Alistair looks unscathed, if a touch shaken up. His hair is mussed, falling over his brow in sweat-dampened streaks and there’s a wild look in his eyes, but none of the blood on his armor seems his, and she breathes a long sigh of relief.

She tosses an elfroot potion to the mage who uncorks the bottle and pours its contents down his throat--- which is exactly the moment the tower chooses to collapse, and the three men slip from her sight, slink away without a sound, like phantoms. She can barely find the time to howl Alistair’s name before falling debris knocks her out.

\---

The clanking of heavy armor and Morrigan’s less than subtle noises of displeasure are the only sounds disturbing the peace of the bog; insects and other small creatures she had never before seen -not outside of picture books- stir and scuttle from under their feet.

He’s too quiet behind her. Way too quiet to be the boy she met at Ostagar, the boy she had thought he was.

“Alistair, are you alright back there?” she asks, her voice grim, hoarse, like the commander of war she was once, but not without concern. His answer is a nondescript grunt of agreement.

If there is any one person in Ferelden who can roll her eyes out loud, it has to be Morrigan.

\---

“Thank you for listening.” he says, and sincerity glimmers in his eyes. There is grief, but there is something else- is it gratitude, trust? Camaraderie forged over common loss in the crucible of combat? She cannot tell, but she returns his small, weak smile, and drops herself onto the log, next to him.

“Anytime, Alistair.”, she smiles, and she means it. Minutes pass in silence by the fire, watching the flames dance- passionate, like young lovers, yet swayed by the slightest breeze, and all of a sudden, the world feels too large for just two Grey Wardens.

Her hand finds his shoulder and he leans into her touch, thankful, before she speaks.

“Have I told you _my_ story yet?”

\---

“Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?” the elf smirks, seductive and playful at once, and she laughs at what she hopes is the absurdity of it all- the gooseflesh on the back of her neck says otherwise. She revels in the attention the assassin gives her, despite the limp in his step and the fading bruise she had given him still on his forehead.

“Not at all, Zevran.” she returns the elf’s smile, and he looks pleased with himself. She can’t help but steal a glance of her fellow Warden out of the corner of her eye, and Alistair tears his eyes away the second their gazes meet.

\---

 _Arie_ , he calls her. Strange how certain nicknames tend to carry through the years.

Trian was the first to use it, when they were still so young -it feels more than an Age ago, when the endearment had rumbled behind the beginnings of his beard... His later glorious beard she used to delight so in braiding. So long ago, before politics and intrigue put a rift between them, long before his smile died on his lips before reaching her.

Some days, she misses him more than she dares admit. Some days, it hurts more than others.

Gorim used to say it as well. In their solitude, those secret moments of stolen tenderness, few and far in between... When his thick, sword-marred fingers pushed the hair out of her eyes; when he murmured soft words of worship, sweet nothings into her ear, and kissed her like she was a totem of a blessed Paragon. Back when her fingers tangled themselves in his beard like they belonged, and he hummed in approval- _my Arie, my lady, my heart, my love._

Alistair’s call is nothing like either. His voice is the chiming of Chantry bells, the sound of a carillon- bright and cheerful, unafraid of being heard, and every time he says it, she rallies all tatters of her composure to not throw herself in his arms.

 _Arie_ , he calls, and she responds _‘my friend’_.

\---

“Fear my rosy scent!” he exclaims, and she laughs, behind her glove, as always. Pride wells up in Alistair’s stomach, or it could be just nerves- _he made her laugh again_.

He fidgets and sways from one foot to the other as she stares at the rose, silent, too silent for way too long. When she looks up, there is a tender smile on her features, and his heart clenches for but a second.

“Thank you, Alistair. That’s a lovely thought.”, and he lets out a breath he feels like he had been holding since the day he first laid eyes on her.

\---

The rain is new. It’s an addition to her life, something she had not seen before coming to the surface, and she _loathes_ it with every fiber of her being. She’s soaked to the bone, the soft cotton clings to her skin, her hair lays flat and wet against her scalp... The mabari slinks into the tent and brings the foul stench of wet dog with him, but she doesn’t have the heart to order him out. The water pelts down on the tarp over her head mercilessly, like a million fingers tapping at her skull. A loud ‘fwup’ and a string of choice words that would make a Chantry sister blush signal the collapse of the tent next to hers.

The flaps open and close. Alistair shakes the water out of his hair and drops the damp bedroll he brought along next to hers- _just this once, please, Maker take that tent_.

An angry, wet porcupine pops into her mind, and she just nods, not trusting herself to resist a laugh were she to open her mouth.

The morning comes and brings the Sun with it- she wakes up sandwiched between her bedmates, engulfed in the smell of wet dog, but warm and dry, and, as strange as it is, content. His snores are but soft breaths, and her bleary eyes linger a bit over the stubble littering his chin and jawline- it might not be as impressive as the ornature of dwarven men, but she feels an affectionate smile tugging at her lips. _A few more minutes it is then_.

\---

The sword and shield clatter to the ground, and she launches forward, arms thrown wide and a name on her lips. The merchant, dumbfounded but ecstatic, scrambles out from behind his stall and they crash into each other- her armor clanks at the impact, and his arms lock around her as he swings her around in a passionate embrace. The two dwarves laugh and cry, voices crack; reverent hands regard features of a friend long believed dead. He smiles, bright and longing and he calls her ‘my lady’; she crumples in his arms, face buried in the red of his beard, words fall from her lips- a cascade, an unstoppable flood. _Gorim, you’re alive, Gorim, I missed you, Gorim, my dear friend._

Wynne collects the warden’s belongings with a knowing smile, and the beast of jealousy rears its ugly head in Alistair’s chest.  _You've no claims on her,_ he tells himself, and he stomps it out with more aggression than it would be reasonable. 

\---

“You killed me as you killed Trian, you lying, scheming, back-stabbing son of a _whore!_ ”

Her voice is quiet, it’s venomous, her words are poison, and Bhelen grins bitterly- a tired scowl, rather than a victorious smile.

For but a moment, Alistair wonders if he has ever seen her truly mad before this moment. He knows the sound, the breath of a bull ready to charge- he’s almost sure he can hear the gnashing of teeth, bones grinding together in restraint. And that look... the look reserved for those she intended to disembowel in the foreseeable future. But somehow, this time, it chills even him to the bone, and he’s thankful it’s Leliana whose hand slithers onto her shoulder.

“You murderer! _Fratricide!_ ” she spits, face twisted into a hideous grimace, shoulder strains against the other woman’s grip- she could tear herself away from the delicate bard with ease, and Alistair can’t imagine a reason why she wouldn’t. “Stone-cursed _bastard_ , I’m going to _kill_ you if it’s the last thing I do! I’m going to strangle you with my own bare hands, feed you to the nugs, _piss on your corpse,_ you dust-fucking _wretch!_ ”

“Is that any way to greet your future king, sweet sister?” the dwarf smiles faintly, and she lunges-- would lunge, if Leliana’s fingers hadn’t sneaked down her arm to grasp at gloved fingers. A soothing touch, cool balm on a festering, open wound.

Instead, the dwarf tears her hand away and spins on her heels; her steps a tight march, the steps of a soldier, and Alistair exchanges a fierce glance with Bhelen before he bolts after her.

“That _whorespawn_ is not going to be king,” she states, each word punctuated by heavy footfalls in the airless cave- “not while I live and breathe.”

\---

 _It could have been me._ The only thought that has been barreling through her mind with the force of a stampede of druffalos-- It could have been me.

She can still feel the Broodmother’s slick appendages slithering on her skin, the smell of rotten flesh suspended in the damp cave; the burn of their fight, desperate and faltering, the wave after wave _after wave_ of darkspawn as they leaked from the tunnels, like sludge.

The taint in her blood had sang, screeched; deafening- she pulls her knees to her chest and the mabari curls around her back to keep her warm. If only Duncan had been late, if only she had given up the fight, if her sword had missed just one swipe... It could have been her.

She flinches when an arm is thrown around her shoulders without a word, and guides her head to a broad chest- the familiar scent is soothing, and she hides her face in the worn linen. _It could have been me_ , and she says it once, twice, three times, in tune with his hand rubbing circles on her arm. The other takes her fingers and holds, one hand easily large enough for both of hers- an anchor, a port in the storm, a safe haven for her to return.

“But it wasn’t,” Alistair mumbles into her hair, and she finally lets out a modicum of the fright bottled up with her breath. “It wasn’t, and it won’t be.” _Not while I breathe, count on it._

\---

He’s clumsy, and inelegant, and he laughs nervously when she touches him, so she cranes her neck to taste the sound on his lips. His hands feel rough and too big for her small body- he had never before felt so large and awkward, but when her cropped chestnut hair is splayed out on the pillow and her arms open to welcome him, it doesn’t matter anymore. His breath catches when her fingers brush him over his smalls; once more when he sinks into her and pleasure blooms in his core. Her small hands slink up his neck and guide his face back to hers, and she kisses away all the sounds that leave him. Her touch is soft as a whisper, and his whole being sings in a bliss he has never felt before.

Their bodies are slick with a sheen of sweat and the scent of love is heavy in the cramped tent. She worms her way under his arm, and looks up at him with reverent eyes- he meets her gaze and feels in love, more clearly than ever before, but the words tangle on his tongue, and she giggles before leaning up to kiss them off.

The rest of their little party is sure to talk, and yet, with her in his arms, he find himself not caring.

\---

A tender smile smooths the worry lines forming on her forehead, and she snuggles deeper into the heat of his embrace- the large arms and broad chest provide a perfect nest for her stout frame, and the scent of winter spice and amber fills her nose, clouds her senses. His arms tighten around her.

“Stop wiggling.” his voice a sleepy rumble, but not without amusement, and he leans down to bury his nose in her hair, kiss the crown of her head.

\---

Not much taller standing up than she had been sitting, barely level with his chest, but even still, her presence is... imposing. The authority of a war commander, the regal manners of a spiteful princess, and the burning ire of a rage demon, all in her eyes... If she were to stare down the Archdemon like that, they wouldn’t need to have this discussion.

“Do you think this is easy for me?” So much pain in such a small voice. Alistair tears his eyes from her face, and she crumples onto herself- a thousand different words on her lips, all at once. They melt together into a jumbled mess, coil around her tongue, and he can’t think of anything to do, so he falls onto his knees and pulls her tightly to his chest.

“Please, Alistair.” she whimpers finally. Small, yet strong fists ball around the fabric of his tunic, warm tears spill onto his skin as she buries her nose in the crook of his neck, and she sniffles loudly.

The first time he’s seeing her cry, and it’s for him, for herself, for _them_.

“Alright.” he mutters back, arms coil around her waist and squeeze her- not close enough, never close enough, her armor is in the way- and the edges of her chestplate scratch uncomfortably against his skin, but he endures for the mere knowledge that it is her he’s holding. 

“Alright.” he says a little louder, with just a little more conviction, and clumsy fingers tug at leather straps until the armor finally peels from her form, clatters loudly against the stone floor, and he squeezes her as if this was the last time he’ll see her. “I’ll do it. Lead me to her.”

She stifles a sob against his neck, and the soft noises bubbling in her throat turn into a quiet, pained laugh of relief- strong little fingers hold his face, urge his head to turn, and they kiss, clumsy and tear-stained.

“I’ll wait... here.” she smiles across her tears, warm, reassuring, loving. “I’ll wait, so... so come back right away.”

Alistair scoffs at the absurdity, and buries his face in her breasts. “I’d rather linger beside a vicious _warhound_ than Morrigan, thank you very much.”, and he feels himself smile as a small laugh escapes her.

“I love you.” she sniffles, her hands urge his head up to kiss her again, and he obliges, heart straining against his ribs, threatening to burst. His breath whispers ‘I love you too’ on her lips.

\---

His easy smile is redemption incarnate- he’s there, he’s alive, he’s smiling. _Oh, I’ll be waiting, don’t you worry_ , he had said, and she rushed off after the briefest of kisses- her companions, her _friends_ , all rejoice in victory.

The Hero of Ferelden. A dwarf, a sun-touched surfacer of all people- bright, so bright she’s blinding, but he can’t not watch as she shakes hands and shares embraces with the people who celebrate and adore her.

They will call her many names in the years to come -Paragon, Hero, Commander- but her naked name is his and his alone, and pride blooms in his chest.

_My Arie, my lady, my heart, my love._

**Author's Note:**

> I still have [a tumblr](http://www.weresquirrel.tumblr.com), so if you liked this (or didn't, or feel absolutely neutral really), please consider dropping some kind of feedback! I'm still rather uneasy about my writing, and English _is_ my second language, so I would appreciate any kind of criticism!  <3


End file.
